


Roads unshared

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [92]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Complicated Relationships, M/M, headcanons galore, implied suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27397468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: DS Extras [92]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 1
Kudos: 33





	Roads unshared

The fire crackled to itself, casting shadows in twists and dips that stretched over padded dry earth and wooden constructions, strung taunt tent fabric and hides, and Maxwell sat before it and watched the flames dance.

The night hung overhead, wreathed the chill fall air and blocked any view of the sky with the overcast autumn weather that had come in early this morning, and outside of himself and the flames only the faintest of ambience broke through the silence. A quiet snore, the shifting of those who slept, the lower calls of night life or the movements of the dark as it encircled them all in their little camp.

Maxwell's gaze stayed upon the fire, flames bright, almost too bright, idle and quiet and patiently waiting for dawn. He has not been sleeping well, these past few weeks.

It was not the art of sleep that escaped him, not anymore; that could be so easily done sometimes, especially with warm company beside him. His insomnia was at its lowest right now, a tide pulled back, and eventually it would return and he'd spend countless many more nights unable to rest, to feel as if he ever had the choice to do so.

No, sleep was not the issue. It was the dreaming that kept him awake now.

The nightmares had purpose to them, getting worse and worse the more days that passed him by, the turning of the seasons into half remembered years, and they haunted the mornings and dogged his steps for hours afterwards if he wasn't careful. When those pulled back, gave him a moments rest, it was back to unremembered dreams, foggy afterimages that ached and weighed down upon him, and waking from them sapped his energy more than any night terror ever could.

There wasn't enough in him right now, to try and sleep. Taking night watch, as unneeded as it was tonight, was the better use of his wakefulness.

...Sometimes it was enough, to rest and half doze in the tent with another warm body, but as of late Maxwell found the presence a bit too much for his exhausted mentality. Nice enough, until his circling thoughts started to trail and then spiral, and then his hands burned as if manifesting shadow influence and his chest tightened to the point where his every breath felt strained, harder to reach that equilibrium he almost achieved every time he attempted to lay down and rest. 

Memories haunted him then, fouled his every breath and flashed nasty images to the forefront of his vision, to his mind, and it only eased away when he'd untangle from the bedding and silently slip away from his partner's presence. Better to be out here, alone, than shakily try to ignore a rotten past of bad mistakes and uncaring choices just for a faint few hints of companionable comfort.

He was undeserving enough, Maxwell supposed; best he stay out here then. Sometimes his nerves seemed to infect the air, and when Wilson wakes from his own night terrors the nights grew long and weary. 

Worse off, that Maxwell was usually the first face his partner saw when jerking awake with caged in screaming sobs from nightmares that undoubtedly housed the Nightmare Kings influence. Those nights were...they were bad, and that was all that was to it.

Maxwell found that removing his presence seemed to ease up such incidents.

So, being out here was for the best.

The best for everyone involved, he reminded himself, and for a brief moment his gaze drifted low, to the embers of the fire that glowed hot and hidden by the flames, to the faint lights that spat up and out before sizzling into darkness, then to the dark cold earth underneath, well away from the wooden planks settled in foundations about camp. He curled his arms about himself, shoulders falling forward, and it was cold and it would get colder and yet still he did not don any winter wear.

Not yet, anyway, not yet. If he took anything too early, too soon before the first frost, then he would have to bear the brunt of judgemental looks, snide comments and hissing mockeries, of how such wear could be saved for others more needing of it, of the children or the weaker camp members, not to _him_. It was experience that had him hold out, grit his jaw to the shivers and huddle close to a fire, or ever closer to his partner when the opportunity arose that allowed him to shuffle and press together; the longer he waited, the less likely he'd need to defend himself and his actions, his decisions and choices.

As if any were good to begin with, or worked out well in the end, but he couldn't be indecisive. The others liked him less, when he made it clear how little he cared, and in turn it made the act of being amongst the living ever harder and less worthwhile. 

The warmth of the fire washed over him, sent shivers up his spine at the chill of the night behind, all around him, and idly Maxwell plucked at the few tears and rips that now adorned his suit sleeves. Blood stained so deeply, his especially, and it was getting harder to clean the more he fought for survival out here; stitches scrawled up his suit now, his undershirt was stained and his trousers nipped with scuffs at the knees, and settling down to work and tailor it all back into dapper form was becoming...becoming a bit harder to achieve. 

A bad sign, he knew, and one he ignored as diligently as he always did. Such an activity used to keep his hands busy, useful to the others as he took up the needle and thread.

But, it didn't feel nearly as fulfilling as it used to be. There were others with steadier hands here, even the old librarian, having taken to resting her nights quietly within her tent with a book in hand and privacy to boot, had a knack for much better threading techniques. His old hands, unsteady and marred by shadow influences, were uncomparable when placed in the same contest with the others who inhabited this camp.

Well, as it was, his old suit was nearing the end of its life. Fiddling with a frayed thread, dark eyes staring at his sleeves and yet not, not quite seeing anything really at all, and Maxwell idly found that the comparison could be made with himself.

A part of him wanted to laugh at that, and a chuckle even bubbled up in his chest, but it died in his throat as his gaze went back to the fire, as the night pressed its darkness all in around him, encompassing and blanketing and ever eternal. His hands stilled, worn leather gloves just as aged as the rest of him, they'd fall apart soon enough too, and just like everything else he didn't have enough in him to care about mending them. 

Mending anything, really; there was little point anyhow, with how much he's tried and failed. Maxwell knew all too well what it was all about, what it meant anyway. 

His hands clasped about his arms, hugged close yet loose, unwilling to curl inwards no matter what, the clogged feeling that arose from his inner turmoiled thoughts starting its slow rise into attempting to strangle him alive. The fire kept his gaze, as warm and bright as he hasn't ever felt in...in quite a long while, but it didn't matter, not really.

It kept his gaze unfocused, mind slowed with exhaustion, with unsteady foundation, and it was a familiar path laid out before him but in a place like the Constant that didn't matter either.

Maybe someday, perhaps, but not now. It was inevitable, of course, and yet infinite, infallible and eternal, and there was no escape no matter the promises his more sorrowful, relieved dreams whispered to him in Their voices that he knew all too well. There was no point; the Constant continued to churn, continued to pulse with Their lifeblood, and he was in for the ride that every captured pawn has fallen into making deals with. 

He was here to stay, and the thought filled Maxwell with an exhausted dread, one he knew too intimately well to care to deal with. 

...Another bad sign, he knew, and yet the fire kept his gaze and its warmth helped chase away recognition of the chill night air, helped chase away recognition of anything else really. If he watched long enough, perhaps he'd get idle enough to start to doze.

 _That would be nice_ , Maxwell thought to himself, already knowing it wouldn't really. Half sleeps still brought night terrors, and the nighttime darkness allowed Them to creep closer.

If he looked, if he had the sight his regal reign had once given him, Maxwell knew he'd see Them drifting about through the night. Clustered about the tents of those suffering nightmares, those of mental nervousness that had to be healed in ways other than sleep, and yet Mr. Skitts still watched him, coiled in and yet slowly, ever so slowly stalking, a cat eyeing its plaything and waiting so patiently before the pounce. The shadow wouldn't speak to him, not until the very end; Maxwell ignored the surety of its presence, of Their presence as They all watched and waited.

He didn't want to see Them, not right now, not with all these bad omens he knew so well. He'll have enough time to reacquaint himself in the next run of life; They usually did not like to set him out near the others, instead through portals falling apart and empty worlds more often than not, especially after season's worth of time lingering with the other pawns in chaotic camps that just continued to nip and tear at his fraying sense of self. 

Soon, maybe, and Maxwell couldn't help but shiver, let his eyes flutter almost closed for a second of exhaled strained breath, a brief hint of dizziness and that ever so constant fatigue. 

He was just so very _tired._

Movement, the sound of shuffling and a tent fabric door flapping open broke him from the drain of his own inner thoughts, unrelenting and yet borderline ambience; the firelight blazed up as a log was tossed into its depths, the low embers and dying flames rising back upwards under attention, and Maxwell sluggishly raised his head from his curled in posture, squinting his blurry eyes and tightening his grip on his own arms.

Wilson hovered by the fire, peered into the flames for a calculated moment before throwing in a last log, his bone talons glinting in the firelight for a brief moment before he leaned back, carefully scrubbed his face as he yawned. The rugged beginnings of a beard shone stark in cast flame shadows from the fire, and his claws clacked as he scraped them together, rubbed his palms as he gave a small show of a shiver, and then the man finally gave Maxwell a silent glance.

Maxwell looked away, didn't even attempt to hold the gaze; it was getting difficult, just a hint too much, to force the facade up when his audience was a single witness who saw through his act anyhow.

Couldn't get anything out of a show when there was hostile stubbornness and verbal mockery thrown every which way. No money to be earned when the ignorant got violent. 

He didn't raise his head even when the other man shuffled his way over, took a seat right beside him, a low exhaled sigh the only sound besides the fires merry crackling, the low ambience of a campsite in rest. There was faint pressure, warmth in where their bodys touched; hip to hip, legs pressed together, sides and the dull poking of a shoulder set just a bit lower than his own against his arm.

And then even more so when Wilson leaned his head against him, right to his shoulder and then relaxing enough to roll in a more comfortable, familiar position, not quite all the way leaned but just enough so to keep them together. 

It was quiet, as Wilson yawned again, shifted in discomfort from the cold but stayed by his side, huddled together by the fire. Maxwell almost, very close to almost gave in to the urge to reach out, clasp his hand with those bone talons and shadow darkened clammy skin.

But he withheld himself, tempered down by the weight in his chest and the stranglehold in his throat, made swallowing a bit difficult for a moment before he hissed a low rattle of a sigh and let it go, no use in trying anyhow, but that didn't change the fact that the other man sat beside him and hadn't spoken a single word otherwise.

No questioning, no answering, no small talk or halfhearted comments, no raised concerns or demanding for a peace of mind; Wilson didn't speak, eyes half lidded and staring into the fire, and his hand was relaxed on his lap as Maxwell clutched his tight in a self hug, still unwilling, still not wishing to try for something that wouldn't end in his favor.

Nothing has ever truly gone in his favor anyway; why would anything that may come to pass do otherwise? He's had enough experience, in this place, and Maxwell…

...forced himself to wait, be patient, for a few moments more. When all that happened was the fire crackling and splintering its new logs, spitting embers to die on the cold earth and chilly air, it took a moment to recognize that he was ever so slowly relaxing once more.

That was familiar, too; being around the others drew him up so tightly strung, sometimes, and yet all too often he'd slowly uncoil, soften up to their presence if he was around long enough, allowed to exist without comment if only for such a short amount of time. It wouldn't last, not for long enough, something would throw him off and back into tightly shutting the gates once more, as always, as it ever would be.

But, for now, Maxwell found a sigh easing from his strained lungs, chest exhaling low and long as the air pulled out of him in one horridly aching slow tug, and Wilson's hand, bone talons and all, lightly tapped his knee for a moment, a faint question in the action that he's grown so used to, oh how familiar he was with the smallest of things sometimes, it ate him alive in his know how and yet it was all he had anymore-

And he uncurled his stubborn grip from his arm, his fraying sleeve, and without much hesitation laid his own hand upon the palm offered to him, talons entangling with his own shadow influenced claws, covered by long worn gloves. His decision was rewarded with a firm squeeze, holding together comfortably, leaned together, and one bone talon thumb rubbed the soft skin of his wrinkled hand, atop and across a knuckle, and Maxwell's gaze watched, unblinking and almost unseeing and yet knowing anyhow.

He was just ever so tired, wasn't he? And yet Wilson sat beside him, late in the silent night, and the warmth of presence and company chased away the patient shadows, erased the board and cleared the stage of set together drain and spiral and ever nearing end.

 _The end was never the end_ , Maxwell thought blankly to himself, and it made his shoulders fall, this thought, but the other man kept by his side either way.

Sometimes he wasn't there, Maxwell knew, and this thought didn't make him angry. He already knew well enough, how little he earned that, and it just filled in with his exhaustion now. If he was angry, he was more likely to act in the moment; better to be tired, then, and wait it out.

Well, Wilson at least was here, when he was tired. Otherwise Maxwell would distance himself, have enough left in him to recognize the need for solitude, the need to not damage anymore than he already has.

He was just too tired to care. How selfish must he be, then, to make such a decision?

The choice to not make a choice in the first place; perhaps They found that entertaining enough nowadays.

A light, firm squeeze brought his thoughts back around, and after a moment Maxwell heaved another sigh, strained and stressed and hinted with a low, strangled mockery of a sound, something like surrendered grief choking up his throat. The admittance, to only himself maybe, didn't stop him from leaning ever so slightly against his partner, sharing for once in the feeling of holding together for such a brief moment. His own head fell, tilted and leaned against Wilsons, the brush of that greasy wild dark hair, and his blurry eyes, obscured by exhaustion and faint damp nipping pinpricks he couldn't fight off the longer he thought inwards, fluttered half closed, then all the way into the gray static darkness of his own eyelids.

Wilson didn't speak, didn't say a word as Maxwell finally let himself crumble against him, for just this moment, this brief nighttime darkness, and Maxwell faintly appreciated the moment of vulnerability he was allowed. He shivered, and probably trembled a faint bit from something besides the chill, but the firelight danced outside of his vision and across his eyelids, leaned against his partner, together like two supports of half fallen buildings, and he just didn't have enough in him to turn it all away.

 _Not yet,_ he thought, but Maxwell held his partners hand and found strength enough to chase such thoughts to the side, to allow himself to relax and calm in held together touch and warm company, _Not soon._

Wilson held his hand, sat beside him as the dark night turned ever onwards, and for a brief moment, a series of brief moments, Maxwell's thoughts quieted Their ever continual whispers and relaxed into shared together silence.


End file.
